


i know we're only halfway there (but you can take me all the way)

by Arbryna



Series: Champions of Kirkwall [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, F/F, One Shot, POV Second Person, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 15:18:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arbryna/pseuds/Arbryna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe it's the rush from the show, or the way she knelt so easily at your feet. Maybe you're just growing some confidence, or getting tired of the status quo. Whatever the reason, you find yourself speaking before you can convince yourself that it's a <i>really</i> bad idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i know we're only halfway there (but you can take me all the way)

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Maroon 5, "Love Somebody"

If a hurricane could play the guitar, it might almost compare to the spectacle—the _experience_ —of Isabela onstage. You knew it from the start—the very moment she glided up onto the Hanged Man's tiny little stage with a casual confidence you only wished you could possess. You watched as her nimble fingers twisted the tuning keys of the most…unique guitar you'd ever seen.

(You've since learned that the guitar belonged to an ex-boyfriend-slash-band-manager, and she took it when they split up. It's kind of a relief, though you really wouldn't put it past Isabela to custom-order a guitar designed after her own naked body.)

At the time, you were too distracted to ponder the guitar itself. You were more entranced by the way it almost seemed to mold to her hip, the way one hand cradled the neck of the instrument as the other cleverly plucked at the strings. You think it was Hendrix she played, something slow and deceptively simple to the ear about escape and flying and making love. You had to look it up later, to remember, because you were too busy watching the way her fingers moved fluidly over the frets, pressing in all the right places and combinations to make the most incredible sounds travel through the speakers and right into your ears. It was less than two minutes, but the thrumming in your chest lingered for hours. 

Her voice was honey and smoke and for a split-second you contemplated stepping down as lead vocals, if only it meant you got to hear that voice, see those lips forming the words to all the songs you knew so well. 

The others weren't quite as smitten as you. Anders took an instant dislike to her when he saw how you were looking at her, Aveline was scandalized by her open pride regarding her sexual exploits, and Varric regarded her carefully, concerned she might try to take more control than the rest of you were willing to give, but you knew, just _knew_ , that no matter what anyone said, you needed this woman in your band. 

It's an instinct that has more than paid off, time and time again. Isabela's sensual charm and particular _accessibility_ to the fans have filled far more seats than your feeble attempts at acting like a rock star—and that's all off-stage. 

On stage, she's a force to be reckoned with. She never stays in one place, always drifting to and fro like she's being blown by a fickle sea wind. She'll step up onto the drum platform and flirt with Fenris, try to harass Aveline into faltering the bass line, lean in close to see Bethany blush into her microphone. 

More often lately, she'll slide up beside you, front-center-stage. She'll lean into you, press her back to your arm; as you grip the microphone in white-knuckled fingers, you feel the sweat soaking through the cotton of her tank top, the heat of her skin under the lights. Her fingers play flawlessly over the strings of her guitar as she tosses a wink and a grin over her shoulder, in a way that says she knows exactly how hard you're trying to remember the lyrics to your own damn songs. You find yourself more and more grateful for Bethany these days, quiet steady backup that never fails to get you back on track. 

At least, it never failed before. Now when you feel the damp press of her against your bare arm, all you can think of is how damp she is in other places, how good she feels slick under your fingers, the way she chuckles in that low, almost surprised way after a really good orgasm. 

You've seen the wary looks Varric has been giving you lately. He's worried you're getting too distracted by whatever this is with Isabela, that it's affecting your performance. He hasn't said anything to you, not yet, but he doesn't have to. 

It's not like he doesn't have cause to worry. You know you've been distant lately, wrapped up in savoring every touch, every look, every kiss because it might be your last. You've seen how Isabela operates; she doesn't do commitment, doesn't do relationships. If things get too serious, she bolts. 

You're terrified. You don't want to lose what you have with her, even if it is just casual hookups in the dressing room or nights of intoxicated pleasure in your bedroom.

(She never invites you to her place, and you never ask.)

It's selfish, all this pining; you know it is. You should be thinking about what's good for the band, and romantic entanglements among its members are definitely not high on that list. If only you could stop—stop feeling this way, stop caving to every crook of her finger and waggle of her eyebrows, stop eating up every crumb she drops for you—if you could only stop, maybe you could focus more on the band. 

You'd have better luck trying to stop breathing. 

Tonight she's even more handsy than usual—if a person can be handsy without actually using their hands. She slides up against you during nearly every song, leaning in close enough for you to smell sweat and the spice of the fragrance she wears.

Isabela always exudes sex in whatever she does, but tonight you can see the need in her eyes when they connect with your own—like she's itching for a good fuck. It's been over a week since you were last with her (nine days, to be precise), but it's not like you two hook up every night; she makes no secret of her very active (and varied) sex life. 

Come to think of it, though, it's been a while since you've seen her picking up a groupie or two after a show, or heard her bragging about her latest conquest—at least a couple of weeks. You wonder if that means she hasn't been with anyone but you in that time. You want to kick yourself for daring to hope.

She clearly wants sex tonight, and you're the lucky one who gets to give it to her. You can be content with that—or at least try to be.

Soon you're playing along. You turn toward her, microphone in one hand while the other slides along her hip, your voice dipping low and gravelly in a way that drives the crowd wild. By the time the last song comes around, you're practically having sex on stage—her heat burning through your jeans as you grind against her thigh. It takes everything you have to keep your voice steady, to keep time with the song.

The crowd loves it—which is what you'll remind Varric of later, when he inevitably comments on the display. 

Right now, the last fading echoes of guitar are being drowned out by applause and cheers, and Isabela's breath is hot on your neck. Her guitar is hard and awkward caught between your bodies, but you don't notice that because Isabela's lips are brushing your ear. 

"Your dressing room," she murmurs, and all other sound seems to fade away. "I'll be waiting." 

A shiver shoots down your spine, races across your skin as she pulls away. She's wearing that playfully seductive smirk as her fingers trail teasingly along the body of her guitar, and you have to hold back a whimper as you imagine those fingers caressing your skin instead of hard plastic curves.

There's a flurry of motion, everyone heading backstage while the audience is funneled out through the exits by security. Later Carver will lead the breakdown crew in packing up their equipment and packing it back onto the bus--but that's later.

Now, you catch a glimpse of Isabela's blue headscarf as she easily slips through the crowd of reporters and fans with backstage passes—you'll never understand how she does that, moves through a tightly packed hallway full of people like it's nothing more than water. 

You, unfortunately, have no such skill. You flash a lot of quick smiles, sign posters and various objects that people thrust into your hands, offer brief answers to what feels like thousands of questions that are tossed in your direction. By the time you make it to the end of the hallway, you can't remember half of what you've stammered into the gauntlet of microphones shoved into your face. 

It doesn't matter, not right now. The door to your dressing room is just around the corner, and the only thing on your mind is what awaits you behind it. 

A private dressing room isn't something you're used to yet. You protested it from the beginning, saying you could just as easily get ready in the same room as anyone else, but as the band got more popular and you played in bigger venues, it sort of became part of the package. The band is called Champions of Kirkwall, but for some reason everyone treats you differently because you're the frontman. 

Tonight, you're not inclined to argue. 

Isabela is on you before you even get the door closed behind you. Her mouth moves hot and slick against your own as her fingers tangle in your hair. Your head slams back against the door, but you don't have time to notice if it hurts or not because her legs are suddenly wrapped around your waist. 

Somehow you manage to stumble over to the vanity, her thighs smooth and warm against your palms. You settle her on the edge of the cluttered surface, trying your best to sweep away the makeup and other random items before pushing her fully onto it.

She's never been one for a lot of foreplay, but this is bordering on frantic even for her—not that you're complaining. A groan catches in your throat as she tugs at your hair, arches her hips into yours. You reach up to knead at her breast and swallow the urgent moan that pushes at your tongue. Her heels dig into the back of your thighs as she arches again, and one hand slides out of your hair to grip your wrist and guide your hand down between her legs. 

You're more than happy to oblige. By now you're well-acquainted with her stage getup, and it doesn't take long to tug skimpy black lace down her thighs and plunge your fingers into the heat you've uncovered. She's soaked, and she bites down on your lip as you easily slide three fingers into her. 

The hot clench of her steals the breath from your lungs, and you pull away to gasp into her shoulder as you focus on the rhythm of your fingers. You taste salt under your tongue, sweat that still has yet to dry from the hot lights of the stage and the rush of performing. 

Isabela's hands return to your hair, tugging and scraping as your mouth dips clumsily to taste the hot sweat between her breasts, to nip and suck at soft warm flesh. 

"Harder," she pants, and you pump your arm until it burns with the effort, until her spine curves back and her head slams against the mirror and a fresh flood of wetness seeps out over your hand. 

You rest your forehead against her collarbone, trying to catch your breath as she shudders against you. It's always like this with her, a whirlwind of motion and texture and the thick smell of sex. It's almost too much, too intense, too _good_ —almost.

"Damn," Isabela pants with a chuckle, sagging back against the mirror. Gold glints beneath full lips pulled into a lazy smile. She reaches up to pull off her head scarf and toss it aside, running the fingers of her other hand through damp hair. "I needed that." 

A smile spreads your own mouth, full of smug pride and other feelings too dangerous to name. You catch it quickly, tone it down to something that won't drive Isabela off. You rattle off a quip about always being happy to be of service, pretend that the pounding of your heart isn't about anything more than exertion and arousal. 

She groans as you pull your fingers from her, catches your wrist before you can bring them to your mouth. You shudder as her own lips wrap around them, her tongue sliding along the length of them, snaking in between to clean them of every last drop. 

"That's you, Hawke," Isabela replies, her smile turning devious. "Always thinking of others." 

Then her hands are pushing at your shoulders, and somehow you fall back into the makeup chair with her straddling your lap. You let out a little moan of surprise, but it's muffled by her lips and tongue. Her fingers twist the buttons of your shirt open, slide under the tank top beneath to drag across your abdomen. Hot shivers trail in the wake of the rough texture of her calloused fingers against your skin. 

She kisses down your jaw, nips at your neck, your breast, and then she's on the ground between your legs. She waggles an eyebrow at you as she pops open the fly of your jeans, and you throw your head back and groan. 

This is new. Not her returning the favor, or utilizing the considerable talents of her mouth, but this—her, on her knees, below you. It makes your heart flutter wildly in your chest, makes the fire between your legs burn impossibly hotter. 

You lift your hips as she drags your jeans and underwear down, spread your thighs wide at the urging of her hands. Your eyes slam shut at the first swipe of her molten tongue, whimper as her teeth scrape along swollen flesh. The arms of the chair are hard in your white-knuckled grip, the muscles in your thighs tight and aching. 

She doesn't tease tonight, doesn't draw out your orgasm. She sucks hard, flicks her tongue in just the right way, and a deep whine rises in pitch as it's pulled from your throat. 

When you open your eyes, she's leaning back on her heels with a smirk on her face like a cat that ate the canary. You know she'd crack some kind of joke about how it was a Hawke, not a canary, so you keep the thought to yourself. Instead you just smile as you meet her eyes, the lazy smile of a person well sated. 

The eye contact lasts all of a second before Isabela pushes to her feet. You watch as she grabs a rag from the vanity to wipe her face, picks up her discarded panties and slides them up over her boots and back into place.

This is the part where she makes an offhand comment about how much fun it was, where she makes a quick exit before things get too serious, too real. You've always let her, because you're afraid that if you push too hard—or at all—then it'll be over. 

Maybe it's the rush from the show, or the way she knelt so easily at your feet. Maybe you're just growing some confidence, or getting tired of the status quo. Whatever the reason, you find yourself speaking before you can convince yourself that it's a _really_ bad idea. The words stumble over your lips, a clumsy suggestion that maybe, if she wants, the two of you could have dinner some time, or see a movie or something. 

Isabela sighs, and you can see her shoulders tense as she keeps her back to you. "This is why I try not to mix business and pleasure," she mutters. You're about to take it back, to tell her to forget about it, when she turns to face you, slow and stiff. Her brow is furrowed, her eyes wary. "Look, I…I don't want this to get awkward." 

You don't want that either, and you tell her as much. You must look like an idiot, sitting here with your pants around your ankles and a look on your face that you just know resembles the most pathetic of dogs. Your throat constricts too late, trying to pluck the words back out of the air, to take them back before they can destroy everything. 

Her expression isn't exactly encouraging. "You know I'm not the dating kind of girl, Hawke." 

Yeah, you want to say, forget I said anything, but your tongue is dry and thick in your mouth, the words choked in your throat. 

"I've done relationships before." She frowns and looks away, then down at her hands. "It never worked out well for me." 

She seems almost sad now, and…nervous? Your heart clenches in your chest. The last thing you wanted to do was hurt her or bring up bad memories. You try again to speak, to tell her that it's fine, that this is enough, but the rough sandpaper of your throat won't let you. 

Isabela's eyes drift back to yours, her expression inscrutable as she studies you for a long moment. The corner of her lips twitches up, ever so slightly, and your breath freezes in your lungs. "So I can't make any promises," she says slowly. She draws a deep breath, releases it in a quick rush. "But what's the harm in one date?" 

For a moment you just stare, stunned and uncomprehending. Did she really just…? No, she couldn't have. She doesn't date at all, let alone date someone as awkward as you. She could have her pick of anyone she wanted. 

"Don't look so shocked," Isabela says with a shaky grin. She arches an eyebrow, sets her hand on a cocked hip and shrugs. "You're pretty damn good in bed. It'd be a shame to let that talent go to waste." 

You swallow hard, and your lungs pull in air like you've just learned to breathe all over again. Your heart pounds in your throat, in your ears as you try to form some kind of coherent response. 

She chuckles and sways closer, reaching out to hook a finger under your chin and close your gaping mouth. "Careful," she cracks. "Don't want to strain anything." 

All you can do is nod, dumbly. She leans forward, her hands bracing against the arms of the chair. The scent of sex and sweat and _Isabela_ is all around you, her breath warm against your lips.

"Since you're the one who asked, you get to pick the time and place. Let me know what you come up with, if you ever learn how to speak again." She smirks into your lips as she gives you one last, languid kiss. Her tongue flicks at your lips before she pulls away, her eyes serious despite the teasing expression on her face. "Remember, no promises." 

You nod again. She laughs, a warm and throaty thing bubbling up past her lips as she spins around and saunters toward the door. You're left staring at an empty room with a giddy grin stretching your face. 

She said yes.


End file.
